


Helping Hands

by panfremas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bathing/Washing, F/F, F/M, Foreskin Play, Hair Washing, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Bathroom, Mutual Masturbation, Orgasm, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pubic Hair, Shaving, Uncircumcised Penis, Water Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23661484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panfremas/pseuds/panfremas
Summary: A cycle of friends helping other friends to experience the pleasure they deserve. Hermione helps Harry, who helps Luna, who will help Neville, who will help Ron, who will also be helped by Ginny, who will return the favor to Hermione. Moving an old FFN story of mine to AO3. Future chapters will deal with Luna/Neville, Neville/Ron, Ron/Ginny and Ginny/Hermione. Minor spoilers for Half-Blood Prince.
Relationships: Dean Thomas/Ginny Weasley, Ginny Weasley/Ron Weasley, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Luna Lovegood, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom/Ron Weasley
Comments: 5
Kudos: 95





	1. Like Clockwork

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while back on FFN, but it's more adult than the other really old stuff I wrote there, so I moved it here, where I'm currently writing stuff. Hope you enjoy! Story fits into the early period of the trio's quest to find horcruxes in The Deathly Hallows.

As they started up, like clockwork, in the chilly early hours of their eighth day in the tent, Hermione could remember the first time she heard the pleasant squishing, squelching sounds that Ron Weasley makes whilst wanking.

Sometimes it was snappy — like when Hermione assumed a little air bubble had nestled its way below his foreskin — sometimes it was sloppy and wet, after a shower or with the sweat of summer heat, but Hermione knew that sound and had known it well since her first night staying over in The Burrow, during the summer before fourth year.

She wasn't quite sure at first, not having grown up with brothers, how to identify the rhythmic, quickening squelching that had begun piercing the thin wall that separated Ron's room from the one she and Ginny had shared that summer. Eventually, though, the up-tempo banging of Ron's four-poster against the wall and the stifled grunts that began then multiplied before stopping all at once had made clear what was going on.

Hermione had always assumed that Ron wanked, she guessed. All boys wank by that point. Even she wanked — and had, pretty much every evening and often more, for the better part of three years at that point. Which wasn't to say most girls didn't, but more to clarify how odd it was what she'd felt the need to ask Ginny the following morning.

"Was Ron having a wank last night?" she'd asked in a whisper.

"Yeah," Ginny had replied, laughing. "Get used to it every night, though, and the mornings too. He loves it. I'm honestly surprised his chap hasn't fallen off yet."

The redhead had poured milk into her bowl of cornflakes before returning its glass bottle to the icebox.

"Don't get me wrong, I'd be at it every night, too, if you weren't here," she'd said nonchalantly, sitting down at the table in her pink-and-white checkered cotton bathrobe. "Must run in the family."

Hermione had joined Ginny with a jam-slathered piece of toast, a little flabbergasted by the ease with which Ginny discussed the masturbation habits of her brothers as well as her own. Ginny had chomped a spoonful of cornflakes before speaking up again.

"The Weasleys love a good wank," she'd said, smiling, with her mouth full.

They certainly did, Hermione recalled as she crossed her arms in her grey knit sleep sweater and sat up on the edge of the lumpy but passable camp bed, refocusing on the rhythmic snapping emanating from Ron's curtained-off chamber across from her own.

She considered indulging in a morning wank herself, as memories flooded back from that same summer when, after a few days of mild coaxing, Ginny had convinced her that it was entirely pointless for two young women accustomed to nightly relief to resign themselves to furtive, fast-fingered, decidedly unsatisfying orgasms snuck in the shower or whilst changing.

That night, the best friends had begun a summer's worth of exploration that started with quiet, awkward simultaneous masturbation in the pitch-dark room and ended with a Hermione as comfortable discussing her orgasms as, say, the history of magic. (It had ended with a few experimental forays into cunnilingus as well, but Hermione didn't think she'd be able to put off wanking if she thought about those deeply pleasurable evenings much further.)

The boys would be wanting breakfast soon as it was, once Ron finished himself off — and Hermione knew that wouldn't be too long a wait — so she wouldn't have had time for anything more than a quickie anyhow. And while such quick-and-loveless tugs-of-the-clit had fulfilled their curtains-drawn role admirably during adolescent afternoons in the Hogwarts four-poster when her hormonal aches had become too much to bear without an inter-class wank, Hermione had sworn off it after her summer with Ginny.

An orgasm, she'd realized one night as her vulva throbbed and Ginny sopped its final juices with her expert tongue, shouldn't be a chore: it should be at the very least fun and at its most earth-shattering a rapturous experience of white-hot pleasure and sweet, sweet release.

It was always too frantic in those quick sessions, she recalled from the tent. And, over the months that followed, she realized that sometimes waiting hours through class while her clitoris ached, her vagina leaked and fantastical visions of steamy sex played through her mind only amplified the sensations when she finally could give herself over to her able fingers, or, in the Room of Requirement, Ginny's.

She'd realized that the orgasms she envisioned when she started off for a quickie were never the ones she got from them, which helped her work through times like these, safe in the knowledge that something good lay ahead, at least eventually.

Boys, or at the very least Ron, had no such qualms, apparently. It was morning, she supposed, and he was hard, as she knew boys to get, so why not have a wank. The quickest way to softness was through a few snappy tugs, with an orgasm by the way.

It was easier for boys, she had heard, and certainly quicker. And to hear Ginny tell it, their orgasms, while pleasurable, were more average. She was glad to be a woman, Hermione thought, if Ginny was right that women's orgasms lasted three times as long, even if it meant fewer quickies and more precise hand techniques. The lack of a mess wasn't bad either.

It was hard for guys not to have a quickie, with how rapidly they could get themselves off. Ginny had told her as much in recounting how, despite her kneeling assurances of the potential pleasure should she suck Dean to the brink of orgasm a few times then edge him off, he pulled his aching shaft away from her at the first sign, pumped it aggressively twice and splattered her face anyhow.

In fairness, Hermione contemplated, there was the biological imperative.

Not where wanking was concerned, but if the human race needed Ron's cum to continue its existence, it's no wonder evolution made it easy. Hermione only needed to cum to continue her own existence, or at least sanity, another day. But there would be no time for that until the night, aching in her core as well as from the day's travels, as she cast a silencing charm and rubbed herself to orgasm and sleep.

She supposed Harry used a silencing charm like she did, and Ron probably ought to have too. Growing up in a house full of adolescent wizards — and one insatiable witch — who were all unable to use their wands as anything but dildoes through the long, sticky summer months, had made him immune to shame regarding the noise of his wanking and deaf to that of others. He'd also learned to cum quietly from the Burrow years, something Hermione could do if she had to, as in the summer, but preferred to avoid by employing a charm at school and in the tent to mask her moans and screams. (That was another Ginny lesson: Don't worry about the noise, the face, the anything; give yourself over to the orgasm and thank your lucky stars for that three-times-as-long fact.)

Hermione didn't really mind the squelching snaps and grunts twice a day, and Harry must have been used to it for all the time they spent in one room at the Burrow. But a charm, she reckoned, would have been the polite thing to do.

The grunts started — it wouldn't be long.

But before she could slide off the bed and into her jeans for the day — hanging, magically washed, dried and folded on the metal tube footboard of the camp bed — she heard an angry grunt, the quick pulling back of curtains, the unzipping of the tent opening and the unmistakable crunch of stomping in the snow.

Harry. Oh no.

She followed him out, holding the oversized knit grey sweater she slept in as low past her knickers as she could in the cold morning air, her feet screaming out as the snow drenched through her threadbare grey sleep socks.

He had stopped beside a dried-up streambed, pockmarked with a few frozen-over puddles. He picked up a rock and threw it at one, shattering the layer of ice that had formed atop it and causing the grey chilly water to burble up and form a new layer of future ice in the cracks.

Hermione stood behind him and cast a warming spell around them, announcing her position. He didn't turn around.

"What's wrong, Harry?" she asked quietly.

"He never stops doing that," Harry said angrily. "Every day…"

"Twice a day," Hermione added.

"Wanking," Harry finished.

"I'm sorry you're upset, Harry, but you shouldn't be surprised," Hermione responded. "Surely you've spent enough nights with him in Gryffindor Tower or the Burrow to know how much he loves to wank."

Harry blushed a bit and paused.

"In the Burrow, that's his room, I figure he can take the lead and do what he wants," Harry said, still yet to make eye contact with Hermione. "And at Hogwarts, that's different. We were teenagers. We were all at it behind the curtains. It wasn't a wank — it was camaraderie. You know how it is in the dormitories."

She smiled behind him. She did know. She had often heard Lavender Brown fill herself with her most prized possession — a mail-order magicked dildo that, per Lavender, felt (and shot cum) exactly like the real thing — from across the girls' dormitory. And even if the residents weren't quite as comfortable discussing and sharing wanking as the boys clearly were, there was a certain camaraderie, Hermione supposed, of listening to exhibitionist Lavender whilst rubbing herself silly behind a silencing charm, guessing that Parvati was most likely doing the same behind one of her own. Lavender must've known how loud she was moaning, so Hermione doubted she'd minded the others taking advantage of the free porn.

Harry continued, presumably reveling in his own Gryffindor memories and searching for the words to continue.

"Here, it's…" he trailed off

"It's what, Harry?" she said.

"I dunno, it's different, Hermione," he said, angry still and finally turning to face her, eyes wide and on the verge of tears.

Hermione leant forward and hugged him, her arms encircling his neck and resting on his back and the back of his head. She brought his head onto her shoulder and patted. With her left leg, she could feel his thick erection.

"How can he do…that…when we're out here, fighting for our lives, fighting for our friends," Harry said, beginning to cry. "We could die at any minute and he spends every chance he can get with his hand on his cock bloody wanking. It's selfish."

"It's not all the time, Harry," she said, stroking his black hair. "And it's not selfish. The routine helps us. It reminds us that we are still people, and this battle can't take that away. The few moments of pleasure we can get out here are valuable.”

Harry paused and leaned back from Hermione, looking her in the face questioningly without breaking the hug.

"We?" he asked. "You too?"

"Yes, Harry," she answered. "Horcruxes or no horcruxes, I have needs, and taking care of them reminds me of a special part of who I am. Ron has needs, too, and he takes care of them like he always does. The difference is, I use a silencing charm."

Harry was speechless. He seemed betrayed but aroused. Hermione pressed her luck, and pressed her leg against his penis.

"I think you have needs, too, Harry," she said. "And you don't need to feel bad or selfish about relieving them."

Harry blushed again and turned away from Hermione. She removed her hands from around him and placed them on his shoulders, resting her chin to the left of his head.

"I can't, Hermione," he said dismissively. "Not while You-Know-Who's out there. I couldn't forgive myself for being distracted. How can I feel good when he's out there killing and hurting?"

"Even you, Harry, wouldn't be much of a match against you-know-who if all you can think about is a tent in your pants," she said. "Listen to yourself: A month ago Ron wanking was something happening across a dark room at night while you worked one out as well. Now you're in a rage at your best friend for no reason — just because it's been eight days in a tent without an orgasm —"

Harry breathed in at the word. He paused, eyes closed, head down, resolve failing.

"Longer," he said quietly.

"How —" she began to ask.

"Not since Dumbledore died, and not for a few days before that," he answered.

She paused. This was deeper than the tent or the quest or not wanting Ron or her to hear him. He had been alone at Privet Drive the better part of the summer, and hadn't wanked. He'd been with Ron in one room, the redhead wanking away, at the Burrow, and hadn't wanked, which after Quidditch might as well have been the house pastime. He'd seen Ginny, who had desperately wanted to give herself to him before his seventh year, who had flirted with him throughout the preparation for Bill and Fleur's wedding, who had dressed up as much for him as for herself, and he hadn't wanked.

Hermione hadn't gone a week without wanking since she'd discovered it. And here Harry was rounding three months.

"Harry, you need to. It's natural, it's healthy, it's important. You get backed up,” she said, bringing her arms down around his waist. She paused, took a long blink, and steeled her resolve. "Harry, can I help?"

He paused. He nodded, eyes closed. He loosened.

She nodded, leaned in closer at his back, and lowered her hands. With her left she pulled the string of his pyjama pants to loosen them. With her right she reached down into them and his boxers, grasping his warm, hard shaft and bringing it up and out of the pants.

Her left hand lowered his pyjama pants further, under his scrotum while her right hands ran briefly through his neat curls of jet black pubic hair and up under his shaft. With her index and middle finger she grasped the underside of his shaft near the tip through his foreskin. With her thumb she rubbed the head of his penis through his foreskin, tugging it back slightly to reveal his head, purple with need and oozing clear, slippery liquid. She got to business on the technique Ginny had explained, shuttling the foreskin up and down, revealing and covering the head, her two fingers stimulating the area of his frenulum with each upstroke. With her left hand, she moved down to cup his scrotum, gently fondling his balls with no particular method or goal.

Ginny's lessons had focused on edging and the frenulum and the prostate and everything else that would make men explode in ways most of them were never patient enough to achieve whilst using their fist to wank. The methods a woman — used to the fine motor skills a clitoris required — could perfect but a man hadn’t the patience for. They'd even "borrowed" Lavender's dildo and made it cum one after another with their hands and mouths. But, Hermione reckoned, Harry needed a plain and simple wank for now. After three months, just about anything would make him explode as it was. Ginny could show him the other, better things in her room once the war was over.

Harry didn't grunt like Ron did, he more inhaled forcefully — it wouldn't be long. After no more than thirty seconds of pulling his foreskin back and forth, the head darkened and Hermione could feel his scrotum tightening in her left hand. The muscles along the back of his shaft hardened that much more, and she adjusted her technique, ceasing her fingers' voyages to the very tip of his penis and instead focusing on short, quick strokes of his frenulum with her index finger, no longer bringing his foreskin up over his head and using the rest of her fingers to tickle his shaft.

She felt the first contraction, then another, in his shaft and scrotum. She adjusted her technique again, as Ginny had advised. When she wanked, Hermione's clitoris usually became too sensitive to touch as she reached orgasm, so she always laid off it, touching at most her brown-hair covered outer lips. Ginny had noticed this, and had offered that she experienced a similar hyper-sensitivity that she dealt with by applying heavy pressure to her entire vulva with her palm. Men, she advised weren't exactly the same. They needed some help to ride out their orgasms, lest they be "ruined" by a lack of touch.

Hermione switched from a light, thumb-and-forefinger grip to a tight fist, and pulled back his foreskin completely, pumping in short, sharp blasts in time with the contractions on his shaft, the inside crook of her index finger just hitting the point where his foreskin and frenulum met.

On the second contraction, a thick rope of semen shot from the tip of his penis and onto the snow, melting a few flakes with its intense heat before itself beginning to crystallize. Hermione pumped out shot after shot until after seven or so, Harry's contractions began to subside and the semen began to burble out in small liquid beads that gathered at his opening and began to drip down along his frenulum onto the back of her index and middle fingers.

A few more contractions and they subsided altogether, his eyes closed and his breathing slowing down, the orgasmic redness draining slowly from his face.

Hermione pinched her forefinger toward her thumb as she pulled his foreskin back up and over the head of his softening penis, pushing out the last drops of semen and shaking his shaft slightly to send it as another droplet to the ground. 

That orgasm lasted at least as long as hers did, so perhaps Ginny was wrong. Or perhaps her statistics didn't apply when the male in question hadn't orgasmed in half a year.

She released her right hand and magicked the rest off of her hand and his penis before using her left hand to return him to his pyjama pants and boxers.

He exhaled and opened his eyes.

He turned around and looked down at her waist, seeming to notice for the first time that below the oversized sweater, she wore only panties.

They were wet.

Hermione hadn't thought of her own arousal through this, but she had gotten herself going with the earlier thoughts of Ron and Ginny and wanking, and actually wanking off Harry, her first time doing anything with a penis attached to a real man, had aroused her.

He reached for her, placing his left hand on the small of her back and reaching his right down between her legs. He traced his middle finger over her panties up her visible crease from near the bottom, where the wet spot began, up to where she felt it stroke her clitoris, standing out from her inner lips with arousal.

She shuddered.

He slid his right hand into her knickers from the side, angling through a thick patch of chocolate brown pubic hair toward her cleft. His index finger made contact with her clitoral hood and he pulled back on it, stimulating her most sensitive spot. He began to rub at it with a scratching motion, pulling her hood back and forth over her hardened clitoris.

Hermione wasn't sure if Harry had done this before, but he had wasted no time finding the place it had taken her months to when she'd first started to wank.

She was sure he would be able to make her orgasm, and she was sure it wouldn't take long after all that excitement. But also she knew that now wasn't the time.

She appreciated that he wanted to return the favor, which was polite, but this was about Harry. Later tonight, when she wanked, she could get her orgasm. This was about helping him rediscover his in hopes that when she was wanking later, he would be, too. Plus, she loved Ginny, and knew that if Harry was wanking off a witch, it ought to be the redheaded firebrand who wanked herself off in Gryffindor tower every night thinking of him. She wasn't sure how, when all this was over, to tell Ginny that he was something of an expert at the clitoral arts without offending her, but would attempt to.

She reached her hand down to his wrist and held it.

"Did I not find it?" he asked, as if, she thought, he assumed she was guiding him to her sensitive spot.

"No you found it," she said, raising her eyebrows with a laugh to herself. "First try."

"Then —" he said, sounding almost disappointed.

"You don't need to," she said. His fingers stilled.

"But I —" he countered.

"Not today," she said. She loosened her grip on his wrist. He removed his hand from her knickers. "This was for you."

He nodded and looked up at her.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "You seemed pretty…excited."

It was her turn to blush. She could feel her clitoris aching, and she could feel the warm wetness dripping out of her.

"I am," she said, smiling.

She wished she could run back close her tent curtains and squeeze in a wank before breakfast, but Ron would have finished and be up-and-about by then, and they'd all be hungry. Jilting Harry here only to seclude herself and wank off alone wouldn't have been the most polite gesture to him anyway. It would make him feel like he wasn’t good at it, and it seemed he was very good at it. Besides, she'd given up on quickies, she reminded herself. No, she'd have to wait. And, if it was any consolation, her orgasm would be better for it.

"But it's okay," she said. "I'm glad I could help you, and I'll take care of myself later."

He hugged her deeply. She smiled.

"I hope you will, too."


	2. Aguamenti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luna has gone through an ordeal. When she walks in on Harry having some private time in the bath, he helps her get back to some semblance of normal, and when that takes a pleasurable turn, he remembers how Hermione helped him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it's been a while, but this is a long chapter -- most likely the longest this work will have -- so I make no apologies. More notes at the end about where I'm taking this story as it evolves in my mind. This is so long because I really wanted to delve into the cleaning part, and add a great deal backstory for how all these folks' masturbation histories intertwine. I didn't want it to go straight to sex stuff with Luna. Additionally, while this series will mainly be single-"POV" 3rd person of the person giving pleasure, this one switches between Harry and Luna a couple of times, but it's only one of them at a time. TW: Some minor discussion of her painful experiences at Malfoy Manor, but no rape/noncon. Enjoy!

Harry learned late the virtues of a hot bath. 

At Number Four Privet Drive, such luxuries were reserved for the Dursleys. “You’re hardly worth the water, boy,” they’d tell him. He was to have a shower, and make it a quick, cold one at that.

It wasn’t until he’d arrived at Hogwarts that he’d experienced the wonderful warm pleasure of being entirely submerged in sudsy water, in the copper recovery baths of the Quidditch locker rooms. And it wasn’t until his first overnight visit to The Burrow before second year that he’d encountered that pleasure privately. It was there that he experienced another, even better private pleasure as well.

Not wanking writ large, mind you. Living in a cupboard with few toys and fewer friends breeds ample opportunities to explore one’s body for hours on end. Eventually, the erections came. And Harry had eventually figured out how nice it felt to touch them. The dry orgasms came first, then all at once the next summer, once he had a proper bedroom, they turned wet.

So he was an expert, or at least a decent, wanker by the time he arrived at Hogwarts, and well before his first Burrow bathtime.

But the bath wank — that was something else. It was Ron, in fact, who had first made him aware of the concept. It was on that same first visit to The Burrow, arriving by Ford Angelina, that he had trudged, bleary eyed into the bathroom one morning in his pyjamas to find Ron furiously wanking, eyes clamped shut, in the bath. Harry’s eyes had gone wide and he had tried to turn away and hurry off, but it was too late: Harry had apparently invaded at the critical moment, and watched as the splashes in the water, which refracted such that he could spot only a swirl of pink flesh and dark orange, quickened before stopping all at once, a few small worms of opaque white semen floating to the top of the water as Ron’s breath slowed down and a calm, happy expression overtook the agonized one on his face.

Harry thought about staying, and acknowledging the encounter. By the end of first year he had grown comfortable enough to join in on the nightly dormitory wank sessions, but those by rule took place behind closed curtains with everyone pretending nobody could hear them. He wasn’t quite ready to go any further, so he turned on his heels and ran back to the bedroom, feigning sleep when Ron returned satisfied but none the wiser.

It wouldn’t be until he stayed over for a longer time at Ron’s, before fourth year, that the two would watch one another wank, but Harry of course introduced himself to the pleasures of bath wanking as soon as the tub was available that late summer morning.

The peculiar hydrodynamics of semen still fascinated Harry, and was one of his favorite aspects of bath wanking, though ironically the sole aspect he could enjoy only once his arousal was spent. He also enjoyed the all-encompassing warmth of the bathwater and the slow, deliberate hand movements that the water’s motion-resistance caused. While Ron, it seemed, was content to spend more energy splashing wildly at his usual speed, Harry took the cue from nature to slow down his stroke and enjoy the feeling of his fist moving up and down and his foreskin gliding back and forth over his throbbing head.

It was these aspects that he found occasion to enjoy for the first time in months as his, Ron’s and Hermione’s travels brought them to Shell Cottage and its miraculous indoor plumbing. 

Harry’s relationship with wanking had improved since the three had begun their odyssey. He owed Hermione that. They hadn’t spoken about their experience in the woods, and neither felt the need to. Harry acknowledged it only by beginning to wank that evening without a silencing charm (which he employed thereafter), eliciting a smile and wink from Hermione the following morning at breakfast as the sounds of Ron’s morning wank came to a crescendo across the tent.

He was by no means as voracious a wanker as Ron was (was anyone, besides Ginny?), but he returned to his usual level, wanking once each night before bed, and felt the return to normalcy help out in the other areas of his life. As their daily treks grew longer and more arduous, the end-of-day pleasure seemed to calm his nerves and soothe his joints as well. 

All things missing when access to a hot bath is restricted, of course.

He knew there were pressing matters at hand, and that the comparative luxury and safety of Shell Cottage was a mirage that belied the high-stakes, life-or-death battle being waged in every corner of the British wizarding world.

But he allowed himself this moment, free of the pain of burying his friend and savior Dobby; free from the pressures of finding the last horcruxes; free from the anxiety over his friends’, and Ginny’s, fates; free from the weight of Lord Voldemort’s invading mind; and free to wank himself off in a nice hot bath, and get back to work afterward.

Harry enjoyed watching his progress through the shimmery, ever-moving water. Of course, he knew his own body, so the undulating shapes of pale pink and deep blush and jet black that intermingled between his legs were more or less identifiable as his fist pumping up and down on the shaft of his penis, his loose foreskin covering and uncovering his head as it was pushed on from underneath with every upstroke.

Keeping his eyes on the task was its own irony: Harry enjoyed it immensely, and it aroused him, but as that arousal multiplied, his ability to keep his eyes open suffered. He had reached that crossover point, and he closed his eyes as he fought his instincts to speed up and instead follow the same slow, succulent rhythm as he neared the critical moment himself.

So he didn’t see when Luna entered the bathroom, though for her part she barely noticed him. She had been in her own little world her entire life, but her experiences in the dungeon at Malfoy Manor had enhanced this dissociation with a negative tinge. 

Harry’s orgasm was close at hand, but he was still working methodically and slowly toward the point of no return he had not yet quite reached when Luna made her presence known, talking to no one in particular.

“It was wet and cold there,” she said. 

His eyes shot open as his hand left his penis, his orgasm withdrawing completely from the precipice. He subconsciously stood in the bathtub with a great rush of water, then quickly realized he had exposed himself. Unwilling to drop back into the tub, he made a vain attempt to cover his impressive erection with his hands, but it remained visible: thick, black bush of waterlogged pubic hair; long, upward-pointing shaft capped with a dark pink head that rested on a lighter pink cascade of wrinkly foreskin resting back around its base. The contact of his hands pressing against the underside of his penis as he held it up against his stomach drove him wild. His penis was throbbing with expectation of an orgasm he knew he would not be able to immediately give it.

“What?” was all he could manage to squeak out.

Luna, eyes grey as ever and looking at nothing in particular, responded coolly from where she stood in a dark blue terrycloth bathrobe.

“It was wet and cold there,” she said, hesitating, brow furrowing as she looked into the bathroom. “Baths are wet as well.”

He realized what she was talking about. No one had spoken about what they had seen at Malfoy Manor, so painful where the memories and so urgent was the need to move onto the next stage of the war against the Dark Lord. But Luna had seen so much more than they had. Her hair was still matted and dark from the months of going unwashed. Her face still bore patches of dirt and grime.

“But this bath is wet and warm,” Harry offered, knowing it was insufficient for the moment but unable to find words to say anything more.

She turned toward him at length, but her eyes were still a world away.

“Oh, hello Harry,” she said, lightening up just slightly. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Were you going to take a bath? I was just finishing up,” Harry said, trying to feign some level of normalcy to get on Luna’s nonplussed level.

Her eyes finally clicked back into the universe her body occupied, and she eyed Harry up and down as he stood in the tub, smirking slightly at the sight of the pink head of his penis poking up out of his hands. 

“I should say you were nearly finishing,” she said, with no hint of judgment or jollity. Harry blushed deep red nonetheless. “And you can put your hands if you like. I know what willies look like, and you’re not having much luck covering it anyway.”

Harry looked down at his crotch and removed his hands to his sides. His erection was softening slightly, the skin of his shaft beginning to wrinkle and his foreskin beginning to signal its retreat over the rim of his head, but his impressive length still stood out from his body, just slightly downward, as he released it.

When he looked up again, Luna’s terrycloth bathrobe was on the ground and her naked body greeted his eyes. She made no move to cover any part of herself, as unselfconscious in her nakedness as she was in all facets of her curious life. 

He saw her feet first as he looked up. Her toenails were long and yellowed as they curled over the tips of her toes, cracked in some places and filled underneath with dirt. He saw her ankles, thin and dirt covered like the rest of her, and overgrown like the rest of her legs with blonde hairs that otherwise might have been less noticeable, if not for the grime of months spent in a dungeon. 

The hair where her legs came together was thicker and darker still. Perhaps it was darker even in the best of times; Harry’s black forest color-matched what was on his head, and so did the fiery orange curls of his best friend, Ron. But he had never seen a blonde in the buff, and the pubic bushes of all his other dorm mates skewed darker than the hair on their heads. Whatever the case, it was doubtless the grime of the dungeon and the lack of washing of that area’s variety of fluids had matted Luna’s bush, and the lack of attention had thickened it, though Harry knew not what her preferred style was.

He saw nothing of what it guarded, and continued up past her stomach, gaunt and dirt-specked, with the hint of her lower ribs visible at the midpoint of her torso. Her arms revealed scars and bruises, relics of the torture she had endured at the hands of the monstrous death eaters. Her breasts were less full than when he had last seen them attempting to break out of her bright yellow dress robes at Bill and Fleur’s wedding. They sagged slightly under their own weight, with none of the fat or muscle to keep them pert. Her large, pale pink areolae were slightly puffy and her nipples reacted just slightly to the cool air of the room as she exposed them. Her collarbones stuck out prominently, as did her upper ribs. Her neck seemed fragile. 

As Harry’s gaze reached her face, though, he was unable to immediately look her in the eye, realizing all over again her nudity and his, and struck by the absurdity of the situation and a powerful impulse to leave. In his mind, he had spent minutes tracing every line and curve of her body, encountering a naked woman’s form in-person for the first time while internalizing the visible evidence of her pain and struggles. She would have seemed almost pitiful, and while he empathized as best he could with her trauma, she radiated no air of pitiability inamongst her ever-present aura of curiosity, idiosyncrasy and obliviousness. 

In fact, it had only been a split second or two, and though she never would have reacted had his gaze lasted minutes, it hadn’t even been long enough to draw attention from a more hyper-aware witch.

Harry resisted the temptation to shield his eyes, and instead looked down again, where his eyes found his penis once again and triggered for a third time his awareness of their nudity.

“I can leave if you like,” he managed to get out. “I can finish up elsewhere.”

Indeed, while his penis had softened to the untrained eye — hanging down over his scrotum now instead of standing out; his foreskin covering the lion’s share of his tip — it was still thick and heavy with blood, and slightly longer than usual (hence his foreskin not completely covering his head and overhanging, as it usually did in his nonaroused state). It would be this way either for the next half-hour or so, or until he gave it permanent relief by hardening it again and finishing his wank.

“No,” Luna managed, eyeing the tub. “Stay, please. I need some company.”

Harry nodded. It would be odd, and he wished he had brought some pants into the bathroom, so he could put them on. But Luna clearly needed a friend now, and she had been a great friend to him.

He fought to keep himself respectfully soft in her naked presence, though he knew his unsatisfied penis, in the mind of its own, wanted nothing more than to reharden and be stimulated.

Luna stepped over to the tub and hesitated at its rim. Harry stepped over to join her, the myriad thoughts that had occupied his mind over the past few seconds silencing and his focus turning towards helping her to settle back in to this one small aspect of life after her harrowing ordeal.

He retrieved his wand from on top of the towel he had brought, which was neatly folded on top of the toilet seat lid. He pointed it at the bath and cast a warming spell, sending a few small wisps of steam up from the water as it heated up. He held out his arm for Luna, and she took it, stepping into the tub, turning to face the faucet side, and sitting down, her legs stretching across most of the tub’s length and her back leaning against the opposite rim. She sighed as the warm water engulfed those areas of her body that sank into it. 

“You’re right, it is warm,” she said. “Could you help me wash?”

Harry nodded and knelt on the bathmat beside the tub. 

Wordlessly, he conjured a stream of silvery, fragrant shampoo into her hair, followed by an “Aguamenti” of water. He twisted his hand to the side when casting it, warming the water. He ran his fingers through her thick hair, thickened further by the months of detritus, and gradually worked in the shampoo towards her scalp. Her eyes, which had been lazily watching his movements up to that point, fluttered shut and stayed that way, a serene expression on her face, approaching enjoyment. The muscles of her smile had not atrophied in their months of neglect, he noticed, which brought a smile to his face as well.

He massaged out the knots and thick strands stuck together by grime and long-dried skin oils. Gradually, as we worked his way back from her scalp to the frayed ends of her locks, she began to look like Luna again. He would spare her an amateur haircut, but at least the long blonde strands — which reached to the bottom of the tub, near her tailbone — were blonde again.

He retrieved the washcloth he had been using, before his bath had become a bath wank, which he had stowed on the edge of the tub. He wrang it out and filled it with warm water again, before magicking on a dollop of liquid soap and rubbing its sides together to make a lather. 

Harry started anew with her neck, scrubbing gently around every corner of her skin, watching the layers of grime melt away into the bathwater. As he progressed down her body, even the act of sitting in the water began the work of cleansing her, and at intervals, when the water began to show a perceptible tinge of oily dirt, he would use his wand to magic it away, and take the opportunity to reheat the water while he was at it.

Luna’s eyes stayed shut, and while he valued her trust in him, part of his duty, as he saw it, was to keep the water clear of any traumatic evidence of what she had undergone.

Her breasts posed the first quandary, though he vowed to keep the experience wordless so long as Luna did, allowing her to make the first conversation if and when she saw fit. Her eyes were still closed as he paused a moment, having cleaned her neck and arms and her shoulders as much as he could.

He steeled himself and tried to remind himself that they were only breasts. Yes, he had voraciously watched as witches in magical jazz magazines caress them with their hands or suck on them as they shagged, or wanked themselves off, on the pages while he pumped away and shot cum onto their printed bodies. And yes he had had enjoyed hearing Ginny’s moans against his lips as he petted her breasts and grazed his fingers against the hard nipples under her robes when they snogged. But they were just breasts after all. They were for feeding babies, for Merlin’s sake. He just had to calm himself. 

As he sensed the time of his pondering getting just to the edge of too long, he bit the bullet and pulled the washcloth over Luna’s bust, trying to find the right amount of contact to clean without it becoming a caress, and trying fervently to avoid any hand position that could be construed as cupping. Luna shivered slightly under the cloth as he washed one areola then the other, but her eyes stayed shut and she remained silent.

The first trial over, Harry moved to her stomach, then bypassed her pubic area and went down each leg. Every so often she would lift the leg when she knew he would need access to its underside, a silent acknowledgment of his actions. He washed each foot, spending extra attention to remove the caked-on dirt that had permeated the thick, cracked soles of her feet, a byproduct of shoelessness and having had just one pair of dirty socks at the Manor. He took the opportunity to clip her toenails — both as part and parcel of cleaning her up back to something near “normal” and as a way to postpone the inevitable: that the next and final area in need of attention was her most private and sensitive one, between her legs. 

With his wand, he carefully maneuvered along the edge of each one, magically cutting off the overgrown tips of the nails. Then, to delay further, he went back over each, magically filing them. After twenty toes’ worth of attention, he could put it off no longer. 

He steeled himself as he had earlier. Bush was bush. Follicles had no nerve endings. And it wasn’t like he got an immediate erection when he passed a sudsy washcloth, his hand or a loofah through his thick, black pubic hair to wash it in the shower each day. And while his cock was visible through it even with the longest hair growth on the coldest day, he couldn’t even see any of Luna’s vulva through her overgrown thatch of dirty blonde. 

There was no need to be so worried, he chided himself, as he brought the washcloth up to her crotch and moved it against the bouncy coils of her bush, engulfing each curl in soap. Job done, he thought.

Harry’s heart sank, though, when Luna, wordlessly pointing to his next task, exercised her core muscles and lifted her pelvic area off the bottom of the tub, directing him to clean between her legs and through to her bottom. He still couldn’t see much, as her hair had grown thickly over most of her inner thighs and outer labia as well — the hint of pink flesh deep within, the darker beige skin of her vulva contrasted with the pale white of everywhere else on her body.

He remembered why he was doing this, and went about the task, pulling the washcloth down between her legs and pressing lightly against her center a few times to fill the hair with soap, then reached his washcloth-wielding hand underneath her, spending a moment on the divot of her hairy anal opening before traveling up her butt crack and washing each slightly bony cheek in turn.

Luna shivered as he swept past her vulva, and again more pronouncedly as he washed her butthole. 

Harry didn’t know it, but she was trying to contain her reaction, for his sake. Luna was not so frequent a masturbator as her friends Ginny or Hermione, enjoying the habit about once a week normally. But it had been so long. Of course she had not had the privacy to indulge at the Manor, nor would it have been any sort of place to become aroused. It was a place entirely devoid of pleasure. She shook slightly to rid herself of the painful memories, then abruptly realized that the shaking magnified the shivers she had experienced and would make it seem to Harry that he was pleasuring her. 

Of course, he was causing her pleasure, but a passing touch of her sensitive areas did not, she reckoned, constitute “pleasuring someone.” Indeed she would not say she “pleasured herself” when washing alone, although certain moments were enjoyable. This all was compounded by the months of no “pleasuring herself” whatsoever. 

It hadn’t seemed to matter there; she had never even thought about doing it. But now, back in safety, back in warmth, her body realized what it had been missing. Harry’s cleaning of her breasts had kickstarted it, and her anticipation of his eventual washing of her vulva had magnified its eager sensitivity over the minutes he spent elsewhere. She could feel her labia engorged and her clitoris hard with arousal. She knew she was wet, even if it was, in a bath, imperceptible.

She pushed those thoughts out, making sure to do so without shaking again. Still, she felt she owed him an explanation.

“Sorry, Harry,” she said quietly, breaking the long silence as she lowered her pelvic area back to the bottom of the tub. “I’m sensitive.”

He looked up at her and made brief eye contact before looking down again.

“No problem, I get it,” he said, and whether he did or not, Luna appreciated the nonchalance.

She looked down the side of the tub where he was kneeling and saw that his penis, which had been soft, was showing the first signs of hardening again, rising slightly up but still bent, its head still covered by his foreskin.

She looked away and tried to think of something, anything that would distract them.

“Could you shave me?” she said, asking the first thing that came to mind then cursing herself for picking an activity that would keep the focus below the belt.

Harry, bless, him, tried to feign being unfazed.

“Sure, um,” he started. “Your legs or your, um…”

She spared him the agony of finishing the sentence.

“My legs first, all the way bare,” Luna started. She contemplated ending it there, but overruled herself. “Then my pubes. Leave my whole bush, but make it a bit shorter. Then take all the hair off my thighs and around my arsehole and my fanny.”

She stood up and sat on the edge of the tub nearest the wall, leaning back against it, so that he would be able to access all the required angles to shave her.

Harry nodded, and she gave him credit for not running away then and there. She looked down again at his cock and saw that it was perpendicular to his body now, his foreskin pulled back about halfway over his glans and a few wrinkles of shaft flesh evincing that he had more length to offer. The height of his calves meant that his erection was higher than his edge of the tub, and, Luna imagined, would rest on it or float above it once he was at his full length.

“Do you know the spell?” she asked, though of course he did. Harry nodded. 

He mumbled the incantation under his breath as he began to shave her left leg, starting at the ankle and working his way up. She watched as the white-blonde hairs were magically detached, some near her feet floating away but most staying stuck to her wet leg as he proceeded upwards. She spread her legs open as he passed her knee, giving him access to both sides of her thigh. He stopped short of her inner thigh, where the straight, white-blonde leg hairs turned into the darker blonde curls of her pubic area.

The process was much the same with the other leg, and the inevitable soon arrived. Harry twisted his wand slightly to adjust the length of his trimming as he began to carve into the thick hair that covered her pubic mound. The job was soon done, the discarded ends of curls intermingling with the remaining ones, a few falling into the water. An even more arresting area came next. Luna fought shivers of anticipation. Shaving herself was never this sexy!

He twisted his wand back to remove all hair, and carefully ran it over her inner thighs, watching the wispy hair fall away. Luna bent her knees and pitched her groin out slightly so Harry could shave her anal area. Then, he tackled her outer labia, which each had thick rows of curls on them, protecting her most personal areas. Her inner lips tucked neatly behind their thick outer friends, invisible from the outside without being spread open. Her clitoral hood poked out between her outer lips, though, due to her arousal. Luna knew Harry would notice, but she resolved not to ruminate on that fact. 

“Could you rinse me off?” she said instead. 

Harry cast a verbal “Aguamenti” and started with the legs again, then her bush, where collections of curls fell into the bathwater below. Then Luna realized her mistake, as she realized where his next action would take him.

In a split second, he moved the jet of water to her vulva. If she had even a few seconds, perhaps her mind would have decided to close her legs, or offer to rinse herself off, or some other thing. But in that split second, her body made its own decision. Her back arched agains the cool tile wall she was leaned against. Her left hand dug into the rim of the tub, grasping it tightly. Her right arm shot out and grasped Harry’s by the wrist, keeping his wand and its exquisite stream of water exactly where it was. Her eyes slammed shut. Her breasts heaved with a sharp, loud inhale. Her head rolled back. Her mouth fell open. And a strangled, moaning, breathy, two-word sentence found its way back from her lungs and out of her mouth.

“Don’t stop!”

In the split second, Harry realized what was happening as well. Had he had a choice in the matter, perhaps he would have given in and moved his hand away. But even if he had not been held fast by Luna’s impressive grip, his head reasoned in the seconds that followed that this was something else he could do for Luna. Like what Hermione had done for him. It was unavoidably sexual, but it was an action taken by a friend. A helping hand.

Harry didn’t have much time to ponder it anyway, as Luna, through heavy breaths, offered polite but direct orders he was all too happy to follow.

“Spread my fanny lips, please!” she moaned.

He contemplated the flesh-on-flesh contact for a moment, but remembered the feeling of Hermione’s delicate hand pumping his foreskin up and down and relented immediately, reaching with his left hand to the bottom of Luna’s vulva and using his index and middle fingers to spread her lips open wide, hungrily eying the pink, wet inner lips within and the hard nub of her clitoris at their apex, its reddish pink head peeking out of its paler pink hood familiarly. Seeing it, he adjusted the trajectory of the stream slightly so it splashed up expressly against her clitoris 

“Yes!” she squealed as the water made more direct contact. The hand that had been grasping Harry shot to the rim of the tub and held on tight. “Right there! I’m so close.”

He was relieved, as well, to have an action to occupy both hands, as had his left still been idle, convincing himself not to masturbate would have been a losing battle. 

He had little time to ponder that either.

“Harder!” Luna demanded. He tightened his grip on the wand, turning the stream of warm water into a powerful jet. 

“Oh yes!” she practically screamed.

His thoughts were gone now. All he could do was watch Luna’s body react to the stimulation, and wait eagerly for any more instructions she might have.

No further instructions came, though. Instead, she did.

“Oh, yes, oh yes,” she started, her buttocks rising slightly off the rim of the tub, her feet firmly planted on the bottom of it. He carefully ensured the jet of water reached its moving target, watching enthralled and unblinking as a female orgasm approached in front of him.

“I’m gonna come,” Luna announced, her toes curling under the water and her breath quickening. “Oh yes, oh yes, I’m coming, I’m coming! Oh, oh, oh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh—OHHHHHHH YES! YES!”

Her whole body shook and her legs threatened to buckle under the crashing weight of her pleasure. Her legs slammed shut and he cancelled the incantation and dropped his wand, marveling as he watched the aftershocks of her orgasm ripple through her small frame, her breasts jiggling and her legs spasming of their own accord.

Harry was as hard as he got dry humping Ginny through their clothes during the couple’s snogging sessions, or as hard as he got when he spent a whole History of Magic lecture thinking about the sounds Ginny made when she came, before running upon dismissal to Gryffindor Tower, or a broom closet, to masturbate. The kind of painful hardness that was almost too much to bear, that led to a practically numb wank until feeling flooded back upon orgasm. 

His cock was standing nearly straight up, in its longest, thickest possible state. His shaft was covered in thick veins, his foreskin completely retreated behind his head and down even further, straining his frenulum slightly. He was leaking clear pre-ejaculate from his meatus, some dribbling down over his sensitive frenulum and onto the bathmat, some trickling down the top side of his erection, over the corona of his head and towards his bush.

He contemplated getting himself off as he watched. He knew that it would perhaps take only two or three strokes to get him there. But he recalled Hermione’s words in the forest. “This was for you,” she had said. This was for Luna, Harry concurred.

Slowly, Luna caught her breath as she recovered from the sudden orgasm, the first she had experienced in months. She slid back into the tub, eyes still closed and an expression of pure peace, serener even than Luna’s usual countenance, across her flushed face. She turned 

“That was very quick,” she said at length, clearing her throat.

“Sorry,” Harry said beside her, letting his wand arm fall to his side.

“Oh it’s not your fault, Harry,” she responded, leaning back so that her head rested on the rim of the tub and letting her hands release their strong grip on the sides of the tub to fall back into the water. “I was well overdue for an orgasm. And even if I wasn’t, I can’t last that long using the water method. You should give it a try after I leave — just aguamenti the most sensitive spot on your penis. You’ll see stars, and you’ll come instantly, too.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Harry said. His erection twitched at the thought.

“Ginny taught me that, you know — using the water method I mean,” Luna said as her breaths returned to normal. “Of course I suppose it makes us even, because I taught her how to wank in the first place.”

Harry gulped audibly. He nearly ejaculated right there from the utter sexiness of the sentence.

“I thought Weasleys automatically knew how to wank the moment puberty hit,” he joked. Indeed he knew from experience with Ron that wanking was a family art form. And while he and Ginny’s relationship hadn’t progressed to nudity or mutual touching quite yet, she had made clear that it was an art at which she excelled herself, often wanking herself off to two or three orgasms under her robes during their snogging sessions in broom closets or disused classrooms at Hogwarts as he shot sperm into his pants from thrusting frantically against her hip, pressing the underside of his cock against a seam in his trousers for stimulation.

“I suppose she would have figured it out eventually, but it’s a bit less intuitive for girls,” Luna replied. “Our clitoris doesn’t stand up and introduce herself when it’s time for us to learn. And that was a busy, difficult time for Gin anyway.”

Harry realized what she was talking about: Tom Riddle.

“It was very tough for Ginny after first year, with You Know Who’s diary,” Luna said. “She was shaken, and people ostracized her for it. Not to mention, she hadn’t made any friends that year, except in that diary. I hadn’t made any friends either. The Ravenclaw girls didn’t know what to make of me. Cho tried, bless her, but she wasn’t ready yet. Instead of a diary, I had myself. Every weekend that autumn, when everyone in the castle seemed to find their way to the lake, or Hogsmeade or some other clique, I would find an empty classroom or a secluded tree or draw the curtains on my four-poster alone. Your body is a wonderful way to pass the time.”

“Yes, I know,” Harry said. “I learned to wank out of boredom when I started getting stiffies in the cupboard under the stairs.”

“I didn’t know what anything was called back then. I don’t think anyone really does. Hermione was probably the only one who did when she started out. But I knew that it had started to make me feel tingly to be naked, so I would get naked. And I knew instinctively that it had to do with my fanny. So I kept touching around my fanny, and eventually I found my clit, and it felt fantastic. And while everyone else was making friends, and Ginny was writing with Tom, I was rubbing my clit wherever I could find some privacy. That was as good as I thought it could get. I would just touch until I wanted to do something else. After a few months, my first orgasm took me very much by surprise, to learn there was something to be worked toward.

“That summer, I stayed close to Ginny, like we always were before Hogwarts. I lived just over the hill, of course. We saw each other nearly every day,” Luna said. “She was moody, but she really just needed a friend who wasn’t one of her brothers. One day, after a few hours of wandering, I told her I had discovered something that felt very, very nice, if she wanted me to show her. We got naked and I showed her the spot on my fanny I had learned to touch, and I told her that if you kept at it, you got a really special feeling. Of course, Gin got very good very quickly. She had her first orgasm, and then another, before I even came once that day. Being a Weasley, I guess, she took to wanking. It was like a light switching on, and it really helped her moodiness.”

“Yes, I’ve seen how she is when she gets her orgasm,” Harry said. “It’s thrilling, and she is quick about it if she wants to be.”

“Now don’t get me wrong, I love wanking, too, but Ginny took it to a new place. She started trying new techniques, and using her fingers or whatever else would fit inside her fanny or up her arse. She learned about her g-spot, and taught herself to squirt. Somewhere along the way, she found another wanking partner, in Hermione, and they exchanged what they knew. But any time she discovered some new dimension of self-pleasure, she would show me what she had learned, and it made me a better wanker. I am still not so prolific, though. I like to let the tingling feeling build and build, all week if I can help it. Weekends are my time for myself, and I like to spend hours lightly touching myself before I finally come. She likes to do it three or four times a day, and come multiple times at that. But Ginny never pressured me about it, and when we’d get together wandering, sometimes, when she got the feeling, if I felt like it, we would give ourselves orgasms, and if not, she would give herself a couple while I watched or read a book or made tea, and we would carry on with our day,” Luna said. “We always kept it away from Hogwarts, though. It was something for the summer …

“With one exception,” Luna said. “She practically pulled me out of Divination when she put two and two together and used aguamenti for wanking the first time. She took my arm as soon as Professor Trelawney dismissed us and ran me all the way to Gryffindor Tower. She wouldn’t tell me anything — just ‘I’ve discovered something marvelous!’ 

“We finally got to the girls’ dormitory, and Ginny sliced through the wards Hermione had placed on the washroom. While Ginny cast them again, I watched Hermione, naked on the floor of a shower cubicle, having an orgasm as we walked in, using her wand to send a jet of water onto her clit. She laughed when she saw me and said she just couldn’t hold on till we’d returned. I wasn’t really in the mood for a wank, but when Ginny was so adamant about something good, I figured it would end with wanking, so I had begun to think about our past experiences to get myself wet on the run over. I was beyond ready when I saw Hermione coming. Ginny returned, and didn’t waste any time throwing off her robes. I don’t need to tell you that there’s frequently nothing underneath.”

Harry laughed knowingly, his erection bubbling up globs of pre-come. How often he yearned to see what was underneath. But even sex-crazed Ginny had lines of what they would do, and that included feeling her chest up under the robes, but not seeing anything else and leaving things below her belt to her own hands. Her sex drive necessitated multiple orgasms during their sessions, and she giddily allowed him to come against her, but Ginny’s rules ensured she gave herself her climaxes.

“She waited, bless her, for me to get naked, which was slightly more involved, then pulled me into a shower cubicle opposite Hermione, who was watching us and touching herself a bit while she cooled down. She stood opposite me and told me to spread my fanny lips. I watched as she did so — Ginny only keeps a little strip of hair, you know. She gets very wet, and she says she likes easy access. Then she told me to cast ‘Aguamenti’ and point it at my clit, and I don’t remember much of anything after that. 

“Next thing I knew, I was sitting on the shower floor. I think it took me a bit longer than today, but certainly not much, and so much faster than I go with my hands. Ginny was still standing, and came for what must have been her second time, as she always comes faster than I do. She didn’t even move the stream, intent on going for her third. Or perhaps her fourth or fifth, I guess, because she must have tried it at least once or twice before she came to get me from the Divination tower. I looked over at Hermione, who was still sitting but had pointed her wand at herself again and was nearing her orgasm as the water rushed over her clit. She came loudly, with grunts and everything, and as she calmed down she looked over at me and smiled. I held up two fingers to Hermione, wondering if that was her second orgasm or third. She nodded, and I pointed to Ginny. Hermione held up four fingers, so that answered that. 

“I watched Ginny with awe as she neared her fifth water-powered orgasm of the day — doubtless she had started the day as she always does with one from her fingers,” Luna continued. “I thought about going again, but I’ve never really been a multiple orgasm kind of girl. Hermione cuts it off at two usually, as well. You know Ginny has no such qualms. Five, and three in a row, is enough for anyone, though, and after she came, shaking and bucking against the cubicle, she slunk down to join me on the floor. And I told her it was marvelous.”

Luna was clean, and her story was finished. And she was certain she was absolutely torturing Harry. In some ways she was goading him, trying to get him to masturbate, but it had become clear he was reserving his own pleasure for a private time, which she respected. If he hadn’t started touching himself as he had watched her orgasm, even the most tantalizing stories of his friend and girlfriend’s sexual experiments wouldn’t get him to. 

They’d only torture him more, make him even harder, his head deeper purple, his frenulum stretched even further, the veins of his shaft even thicker and more coursing as his pre-ejaculate came out in even stronger rivers. And of course she had even more stories of her summer experiences with Ginny to torture him with. But that was enough for then. 

Abruptly, as he still appeared to be in a cloud of fantasy imagining the three women making themselves come in the Gryffindor girls’ washroom, Luna stood in the tub and stepped out of it. He watched her as she exited it and toweled herself off. She threw her towel into the hamper and put on her bathrobe, lying in a heap on the floor. 

“Thank you,” she said.   
“Of course,” he managed to say.

“Aguamenti,” she said, eyeing up his erection one last time gesturing with her head towards his discarded wand. 

Luna turned on her feet and exited the washroom, closing the door and casting a locking spell loudly enough that he would hear her. She stayed put on the other side of the door. Harry would be far too preoccupied with his arousal to notice that her footsteps hadn’t padded away. She lightly leaned her ear against the thin wooden door. 

She heard a bit of rustling. She heard a splash of water, as someone sitting down in a tub. 

“Aguamenti,” she heard Harry recite quietly, and almost immediately, and louder, “Oh fuck!”

She heard little splashes, as of a stream of water bouncing off of something and into a water-filled basin. 

She heard louder splashes too, as of legs or arms thrashing in a pool. 

She heard a deep, strained inhale followed by nothing but the various splashes, which quickened wildly before ending altogether, the only remaining noise a loud exhale and the the rippling sound water makes when the remnants of a wave lap against a surface.

She heard the unmistakeable clatter of a wand — ten inches, hawthorn, unicorn hair — hitting tile.

She smiled to herself and walked away, satisfied in being clean, in feeling herself, in having had an orgasm, and in having heard Harry’s.

She met Hermione, coming up the stairs to the bedrooms of Shell Cottage from the dining Room where she had been contemplating next steps over breakfast. Hermione nodded a greeting to Luna and looked toward the bathroom door, closed, which was odd, and back to the blonde-haired girl.

Luna winked as she responded.

“Occupied.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, like I said, going to be a cycle of people helping other people, paying pleasure forward. Hermione > Harry > Luna > Neville > Ron > Ginny > back to Hermione, then maybe a bit of an epilogue. I have started writing Neville/Ron, and I have a crystal clear idea for Ron/Ginny. Fuzzy ideas for Ginny/Hermione and the epilogue, and a rough, rough thought for Luna/Neville. So the next chapter will probably be a while, with the one after that comparatively soon. Also, there will be a component of orgasm denial in every chapter except Ron/Ginny, where the giver will wait till afterward to get release, some (Harry here obv) and Ginny in Ginny/Hermione in the fic, the others not. Additionally, this chapter and Neville/Ron will be water based...fun! The hallmarks will be discussion of the focus character's wanking history, and the concept of giving pleasure in a way that helps one of the participants (all received except Ron/Ginny). May be a while, but I appreciate your reading!


	3. Own Little World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luna is back at Hogwarts, and convinces Neville to let her help him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is worth the wait, and hope you've enjoyed my other fics in the interim. 
> 
> One note: This fic follows movie canon for two things: Luna and Neville being a couple after the battle, and Luna returning to Hogwarts before the trio does, in this fic by portkey. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Luna detested the phrase “in her own little world.” 

First, the falsity of it: isn’t everyone’s experience of the world their own? And how would someone presume to analyze her experience of it?

Second, the choice of adjective: No world is “little,” not the least of them that world which one creates in one’s own head through perception and imagination. She knew well enough that little got tacked on to all sorts of phrases simply as a way to bridge the silence between two more important utterances, like “very” or “wicked.” But that didn’t forgive its use in an altogether abhorrent turn of phrase.

Third, and most detested, though, was the way people used it with regards to Luna herself. “Oh Loony Lovegood?” she’d hear them across the common room, or as they walked by while she sat beneath a shade tree on the Hogwarts grounds. “Don’t mind her — she’s in her own little world.”

Even her friends, people Luna loved and who she knew loved her, occasionally let the words slip unconsciously into their vocabularies where the blonde-haired Ravenclaw witch was concerned.

Luna knew her friends didn’t mean it, of course. And those whose intentions she couldn’t divine? She knew they were jealous.

They saw her contentment and wondered how she could be so happy in her own company. Luna pitied that they couldn’t or didn’t love themselves the way she did. And that they couldn’t find happiness solo like she could, whether that meant reading or writing by herself, singing to herself, watching the clouds by herself, or, of course, when the feeling overcame her, touching herself.

Admittedly, the time spent in that favorite pursuit involved building worlds for herself threefold: the physical world of her piled-up pillows and drawn bed curtains, or a sunny spot in a deserted field, or a perfect-temperature bath scented with oils; the mental world of her memories and fantasies, playing out repeatedly and to her heart’s content as they drove her arousal, fast-forwarding to and pausing on the critical moments; and, most crucially, the sexual world at their intersection, which she built with her fingers on her clitoris, shaping her pleasure in plateaus and inclines and glorious peaks as if building some sublime, godess-ly sandcastle by manipulating her most sensitive flesh..

Luna supposed she should embrace that solace and not give the naysayers the time of day. But the phrase was detestable nonetheless.

Also among those things Luna detested? Portkeys.

The pulling, jarring, nauseating feeling of traveling by portkey inverted every feeling in one’s body. The tug at the navel was practically an inverse orgasm, stimulating each part of one’s anatomy in the exact wrong, most unnatural way.

But, Luna supposed, as she recalled the memory of her arrival by portkey, hours earlier, to just outside Hogsmeade from far-away Shell Cottage, portkeys, like all detestable things, had their uses — the exception, perhaps, that proved the rule.

Even that pernicious maxim — “own little world” — had one, as Luna had quickly learned in the short time since her arrival.

His name was Neville Longbottom.

Nearly everything about Snape’s Hogwarts was alien to Luna, entirely unrecognizable from her beloved school. But the people within it, or at least her friends, were mercifully familiar in how they greeted her arrival. 

Lavender had hugged her deeply and commented straightaway on her changed appearance, before launching into a — real-time, it seemed — rundown of the Hogwarts gossip of the past months. Cho had greeted her in the same way she always had since Luna’s arrival to Ravenclaw House in Cho’s second year, with a confused but polite salutation that belied that Cho still had no idea what to make of the Lovegood witch.

And Ginny, was it any surprise, made sure Luna was all right then asked a litany of questions about Harry, his health and his wherabouts. Then, once the redhead had received suitable information on her boyfriend’s recent past (though Luna left out the bathtub rendezvous, for now), excused herself for a relieved and celebratory wank. (As was the Weasley way of processing any and all news, good or bad.)

All were changed, irrevocably, by what was going on around them, but all retained their kernels of true self. All, it seemed, except Neville.

Luna suspected that Neville’s self was somewhere underneath the rugged exterior he outwardly presented as reluctant leader of Dumbledore’s Army in exilo. If she only had a minute, or a half-minute, perhaps, to really look at him, perhaps she would see it and be assured to its continued existence. Luna further suspected that Neville knew this, and knew that the fragility of his — or anyone’s — tough exterior, while safe to reveal to Luna, was equally devastating in the eyes of an enemy, of which he had many.

So Luna could forgive him for what he had done to adjust to that paradigm: be entirely unseen. He flitted from one place to another in breakneck speed, never idling for a second lest his facade be understood. Luna recalled some scientific principle from a Muggle textbook Hermione had smuggled her: the position and momentum of a thing could not both be discerned in the same moment. 

In this way, Neville was in his own little world, not a daydream of his creation but one in which only he knew what he thought, what he was doing and what he planned to do next. Luna caught glimpses of his true self as she watched him in the Room of Requirement in the hours after her arrival. Like a few pieces of a Muggle jigsaw, that were only valuable if one had an idea of the full picture on the front of the box. Luckily, Luna had a full, if out of date picture.

She had been friends with Neville for the better part of two years by then, and as her attraction to him had grown and become less and less platonic, she had eyed him even more intently. So she was able to parse the glimpses she got into a fuller image — one of anxiety, manic activity and … the major state was hard to guess at. It was that knife-edge excitement in which all the atoms of one’s body seemed to vibrate. The churning amalgam of adrenaline-junkiness, fight-or-flight reflexes and a sort of asexual yet all-encompassing arousal.

Luna watched him as he bounced around the crowded space, which could fit as many as it needed to, but had grown no larger than necessary. Over here he checked in on the latest reconnaissance from the radio, their only connection to the Order and the wider war in the wizarding world. Over here he gave instructions to a crew of students who were still living outside the Room of Requirement. Over here he checked the Marauder’s Map, perhaps the single most important non-human asset the DA had. It was a whirlwind of constant motion. The mind boggled.

*

As night fell, the Room of Requirement quieted. Slowly, as exhausted DA members brushed their teeth or showered or set their hair for the next day, the cots and hammocks that littered every corner of the main space filled and the ceaseless, buzzing chatter of the day went gradually mute.

Luna had been granted a hammock near the cots of core DA leaders. Luna, for whom sleep could never come until those around her were safe in bed (a real curse in the Ravenclaw girls’ dormitory, wherein certain young witches could be out all hours, in the library studying or in the common room dry-humping their boyfriends), watched dutifully as Neville tossed around on his bed while that beside him, assigned to Ginny, remained empty. 

At length, Ginny appeared, out of the door of the room that she, Neville, and the other DA brass had been using as a makeshift headquarters, ward room and general space to get a millisecond of peace. Ginny wore a serene expression and a stripey, pale pink bathrobe, which as Luna well knew was her “in public” nightwear of choice. (If alone or among select friends, she slept nude.)

Ginny noticed Luna’s eyes watching her and winked at her blonde friend before momentarily drawing her robe to one side. Luna’s eyes nonchalantly took in the sight of Ginny’s vulva, adorned with a thin strip of bright-orange pubic hair, with its thin outer lips on either side of bright pink, practically dripping-wet red inner lips and a swollen clitoral hood that confirmed Luna’s suspicions that Ginny had just had a wank before bed. 

As Ginny settled down, sated, to go to sleep, Luna briefly contemplated the meaning behind Ginny’s wink — of course it had face value. The Weasley girl’s flash of skin to Luna made that clear. But it seemed deeper, a tacit acknowledgment that they had all developed their coping mechanisms to deal with what was happening around them. That Ginny’s was masturbatory was a no-brainer. Luna got to wondering what Neville’s was. Of course, the wink was also simpler, as if Ginny had said, “Over there is where I go to wank, in case you need to!”

Ginny, of course, was out like a light. Growing up in the stuffed-to-the-gills Burrow, one did not have the luxury of being a light sleeper. And doubtless Ginny had pretty well tuckered herself out.

Slowly, Luna let sleep begin to take her. Soon, though, she perked up at the noise of sheets rustling. She opened her eyes and, after a momentary adjustment to the faint warm light of the few candles left burning in the Room of Requirement, watched as Neville, wearing only a pair of light-gray Y-front briefs got up and carefully tip-toed over to the same headquarters room Ginny had come from. 

Curiouser and curiouser. 

She gave Neville a minute, then roused herself quietly and tiptoed to the side room. It was an utter mess of loosely organized chaos, with the kind of helter-skelter charm that only accompanied a space used for a righteous task. Neville had lit a candle at the far end, and was staring at something down below with his back to Luna, a silhouette that revealed just how muscular the boy had grown to become as he stood before her in his dark blue boxer briefs.

Not that Luna hadn’t noticed, of course. But when you’ve known someone a long time, it can be hard to erase your impression of their original form from your mind. She did try, though, to replace that impression. By herself, on her bed at home over the summer, imagining him skinny-dipping and showering and all sorts of nude activities (inexplicably erect for all of them, in her mind). And now, as she walked towards him, with thoughts that he must be standing there before the desk, furtively stroking his urgent erection as it poked through his y-fronts, ejaculating onto his muscular abdomen.

She stepped quietly toward him and wordlessly cast a ward behind her to ensure they wouldn’t be disturbed. As she approached him from behind, she stopped about four feet shy.

“Can I help?” she said with as much sexy simmer as she could muster.

He stood straight up and wheeled around, wand raised and nervous, before realizing it was only Luna and lowering it, letting out a relieved exhale and allowing his heart rate to return to normal. 

Perplexingly to the blonde-haired Ravenclaw, his briefs still very much closed, and their contents, she saw with a glance, were still undeniably soft.

“Gods Luna, cough or something next time you sneak up on me,” he said, still calming himself down from the adrenaline rush of his fight-or-flight response. He paused. “Help me with what?”

Luna eyed behind him and analyzed the collection of papers and clippings and photographs on the table. She had clearly misunderstood what he was in the room to do — he was simply attending to the orders of the DA. Just because it was Ginny’s wank spot didn’t mean it was his. How silly of her to let her own fantasies overwhelm her impression of the situation. She could barely face him, much less answer.

At length, she managed to.

“Sorry,” she said. “I thought you were…gods I feel silly.” She sighed. “I thought you were in here having a wank.”

Neville went beet red.

“Why in the seven hells would you think that?!” he said, his unwarranted embarrassment expressing itself as anger.

“Well that’s what Ginny was doing in here,” Luna answered matter-of-factly. “I thought that was what this place was for.”

Neville seemed dumfounded, but Luna’s eyes wandered as they did throughout all her conversations — around the room, across the table, to Neville’s eyebrows, to the buldge in Neville’s underwear she could swear she saw twitch.

“That’s what Ginny was up to!?” he whispered loudly. “Gods we have to use this place for meetings and work. Ugh! Besides, we don’t have time for that now.”

“She’s quick,” Luna answered. “And you should always make time for your body, even the private parts of it. It saves you so much time you’d otherwise lose to stress.”

Neville didn’t answer.

“And if it makes you feel any better,” Luna responded serenely as ever, “if you can think of a place at Hogwarts, Ginny’s probably had a wank there.”

Neville just stood silently stunned.

“Obviously every Griffyndor girls’ dormitory,” Luna explained, remembering her friend’s masturbatory exploits, whether those described to her or those she witnessed. “She practically makes it a ritual when she moves in every fall. She doesn’t really feel at home till she’s christened her new bed. And the common room. She can be quiet when she wants to be, and Hermione told me she didn’t even notice what Ginny was up to that night. 

“She pulled the same stunt on me in the Ravenclaw common room as well when we were revising, and I didn’t realize what she was doing until she’d already came. I don’t think the books get her horny, though. It’s just automatic with her. I’d be surprised if she hasn’t done it in my bed when she’s come to visit me in Ravenclaw Tower, but I don’t know for certain. But I’m pretty sure she hasn’t gotten into Hufflepuff or Slytherin.

“Pretty much every part of the Quidditch Pitch of course, lockers and stadium. I don’t think she’s ever done it during a match, but most of the girls mess around with the vibrating broom spell at practice. She’s a chaser of course. I know she’s jealous of Harry. If she were a seeker she could fly up and have a mid-match wank if she wanted.

“And by the lake of course, and a whole lot of secluded places outside. And most of the washrooms and broom closets I’m sure. I don’t know exactly where, but anywhere she and Harry run off to snog in, ‘cause she’s always wanking under her robes when they do that. She can’t help herself, she gets so horny but she’s not ready to let him do it to her just yet. 

“I do know for certain she’s done it in the girls’ bathroom off Gryffindor tower, though, cause I was there with her once. I guess that’s not really groundbreaking information. I reckon every wizard and witch at Hogwarts has wanked off in at least their bed and their nearest shower. But that was a notable day in the history of Gryffindor female masturbation, if I do say so myself. She had five orgasms using her wand to shoot water at her clit. Five! I guess I was only there for three of them, though. And I only witnessed two. The first one, or the third one rather, I was too preoccupied with my own fanny to notice. Aguamenti, it’s a good spell for guys, too, if you’re interested. I only had one of course. That’s my usual habit. But Hermione had two, and I saw her come both times, so that was nice. That was a very special day.”

Neville gulped.

“It sounds it,” he said.

Luna came back to the reality of the room around them, out of her sexual revery.

“It was,” she said. She looked down at him. His erection was straining against his underwear, the drastic rim of his glans presenting through the fabric in high relief, twitching with his heartbeat.

Luna closed the space between them.

“Now would you like some help?” she asked, placing her hands lightly on his hips, at the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Neville inhaled sharply.

“It’s late,” he said, not meaning even a syllable of it. “I can take care of it…”

Luna pulled down his underwear with one switch motion, his erect penis bouncing upwards as it was freed. 

“There’s no sense in that when I’m here,” she said. He moaned.

She eyed him hungrily. He was smaller than Harry, by about an inch and a half, but thicker. Unlike, Harry, Neville was circumcised, and his head mushroomed out from his shaft greatly, angry with need and with a bead of precome settled at its sliver of an opening.

His penis sprouted from a bush of black hair, and below she could just see the forms of two large testicles in a hair-covered sack.

“OK,” Neville heard himself say.

Luna barely waited a second before running her thumb over the opening on his glans to distribute the precome.

Neville shuddered at the contact.

“Wait,” he gasped.

She stopped.

He reached back for his wand and pointed it at her hands, one of which had been about to commence its first downstroke, the other of which had made an “o” around the base of his shaft.

He flicked his wand and Luna’s hands became covered in a jelly of lubricant.

“That’ll make it easier since I’m cut,” he explained. “And don’t touch the tip directly. It’s way too sensitive.”

Luna nodded and repositioned her main hand, forming a ring with her four fingers around his shaft, their tips on the sensitive underside of his erection, the index finger just below the triangle just under the back of the head. He was only a few finger lengths longer than her hand, so her strokes were short, but she tried to twist with each one and stimulate him just that little bit more. Her second hand kept its post at the base of his shaft, fondling his scrotum with her fingers.

Luna wasn’t quite sure why her instinct was to pleasure Neville. Perhaps she was in an orgasm-giving mood. After all, she was still glowing with the climax Harry had inadvertently given her in the Shell Cottage bathtub the previous week, and with the slower, more sensual one had given herself afterwards in a hourslong session in the guestroom she’d been sharing with Hermione.

But it was her instinct, and at first it seemed to be working. Neville moaned with pleasure when she did certain moves, and she could feel him flex the muscles of his cock every so often. But eventually, it seemed she had stopped making progress. He’d buck every so often, as if to herald an imminent orgasm, but he’d lose it, or she’d break her rhythm by accident, or some other combination that brought him back down to Earth. It was her first time touching a penis, so she forgave herself those indiscretions, and it must have been nerve-wracking for him, how sudden their encounter was in light of all that was going on around them.

At length, she began to feel him soften, and her heart sank. He placed his hand over hers and removed it.

“This is hopeless,” Neville said, dejectedly. “Thanks, Luna, but I’ll finish up on my own.”

“Please, Nev,” she said, noting how he perked up at the pet name. “Please let me try again. I’ve never done this before. Here — ”

She took a step back and reached under her T-shirt, removing it and revealing her braless breasts. Neville’s eyes went wide as he ogled her. Luna was aware her breasts had not yet returned to their full self after the privations of Malfoy Manor, but Neville didn’t know that. 

“Does this give you some encouragement?” she asked. He nodded, but his cock had answered for him, as it stood at attention once more. “Good.”

She stepped back towards him and reached for his cock again. He reached up and took a breast in her hand, feeling it tentatively and marveling as her nipple began to harden after he rubbed past it with his thumb.

Luna began stroking him again, and focused on her rhythm, keeping it constant and making sure her index finger reached up to the triangle that seemed to bring a reaction each time it was touched.

But she would take no chances this time. She decided to employ a technique Ginny — who else — had taught her and that Luna enjoyed once in a while. One Ginny had said would drive men even wilder than it drove the two of them. 

She began preparation by bringing them even closer together and moving her second hand to his back side, caressing his rump as she stroked him. 

As she began to notice the signs again — a buck here, a moan there — she moved her fingers, still magically saturated with lube, between his cheeks and found the bud of his anus, then rubbed around it to coax it open and popped a finger inside. She pressed it against his prostate and he moaned loudly, crashing his body into hers and spasming as his penis began gushing semen without warning as a powerful orgasm took him.

Luna felt spurt after spurt of hot semen gush onto her hands and stomach. As Neville’s orgasm subsided, she slowed her strokes on his shaft and removed her finger from his anus. 

He was still panting as she began to turn, to reach get her wand out of her pocket and clean herself off from the semen and the lube. Before she could turn even halfway, he put his arms around her and swung her back to him, his lips crashing onto hers in a deep and passionate kiss.

His still semi-hard penis squished against her bare stomach, covered in its product.

She was startled but returned the kiss enthusiastically.

After what felt like an eternity but had been seconds, they parted.

“Where did you learn that?” he asked, still catching his breath.

“Just because girls have another hole doesn’t mean that one gets ignored,” she said with a laugh as she flicked her wand to clean herself and him up. “You’ve only got the one. It’s a shame more of you don’t use it.”

“I will now,” he said.

“Good,” she said, picking up her shirt and putting it back on.

“Luna —” he started, his eyes on where her breasts had been on display and his hand gesturing lower. 

“It’s all right, Nev,” she said cheerfully. “I like to save up my tension for the weekend when I can. But don’t worry, I’ll be thinking of you when I do finally have a wank.”

He blushed happily. She turned to walk away.

“Luna, I —” he started. 

He couldn’t find the words.

“It’s all right, Nev,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere. After the war, we’ll give it a shot.”

He smiled ear to ear as she left the room. She smiled to herself as she slunk down onto the hammock.

Her smile persisted as she quickly fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is already half to 2/3 done, and is going to be Neville helping out Ron. We're alternating boy/girl for the most part, but there will be one boy-boy chapter and one girl-girl chapter (the last chapter, Ginny/Hermione).


	4. "Bollocks!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Hogwarts community rebuilds after the battle, Neville finds himself reveling in the pleasures of a hot shower. When Ron arrives in need of some release, he helps the Weasley wizard with some relationship advice, administered manually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow! I had no idea I'd finish this up this quickly, but here you go. I hope you like it.

There were very few things that magic couldn’t sufficiently recreate. Of course there were the rules of transfiguration and all sorts of formal metaphysical restrictions, Neville knew (though Hermione knew better). There were the the human, emotional realities that only the mind could truly conjure, and which only touched the darkest fringes of magic, like love potions or the Imperius Curse.

But for Neville, it was the simpler things. Magic could make you a nice warm, spacious tent. It could heat up your cup of tea, dry off your waterlogged jumper or make your blanket nice and toasty at night. But it couldn’t beat an old-fashioned hot shower. 

So while a large portion of Hogwarts’ alumni, faculty and students populated a tent city on the ruins of the Quidditch pitch as they worked to rebuild the school in the months after the Battle, Neville was glad that one such structure they had seen fit to tackle first was the pitch’s shower complex. 

Perhaps, he reckoned, it was a triaged decision: there were dozens of witches and wizards working to rebuild the castle, and it wouldn’t be habitable for a good while. Even with wandwork, the task was not simple. They needed somewhere to wash and use the facilities.

But even if the authorities’ motives were utilitarian, Neville figured he could still revel in those aspects of a hot shower that created a magic all their own. The steam that cleared your sinuses and your headspace. The random pitter patter of water droplets making infinite ephemeral patterns on your back. The pleasant scent of soap as it cascaded in rivulets down one’s body and into the drain. 

There was a certain solitude, despite the fact that the pitch’s showers were open rooms with rows of showerheads and no privacy. A solitude that came when one closed one’s eyes and let their thoughts flow down the drain, too. That was why magicking up a stream of hot water compared unfavorably to Neville — too much on which to focus.

There was shower wanking, too, Neville remembered as he tied a dry towel around his nude frame and prepared to leave his and Luna’s tent for the showers, retrieving a small bar of soap from atop his makeshift dresser. It was its own simple pleasure, shower wanking was. A warm and wet and pleasant affair with no mess to worry about and the arousing sensation of being totally naked. As a rare circumcised British wizard, there was the added bonus of watery slipperiness that made shower wanking a special low-effort treat wherein Neville could grip his penis more firmly without the need for a lubricating spell, sliding his fist up and down its shaft with the water as an aid, letting the insides of his fingers touch its most sensitive areas.

There would be no need for shower wanking tonight though, nor for the foreseeable future. Luna had seen to that. 

Their rendezvous in the Room of Requirement headquarters in the weeks before the battle had not immediately resulted in a full sexual relationship, but it had portended the lovely things to come. Since the battle had been won, Neville and Luna had been with each other almost always. And when they were alone, they were almost certainly shagging. 

It seemed to Neville that their insatiability, whether a temporary effect of their recent liberation or a permanent aspect of what he hoped would be the rest of their lives, was perfectly matched. All it took was a glance, initiated by one or the other, and Neville would pull off his clothes and start to get himself hard while Luna shimmied out of her knickers and began lightly stroking her vulva.

He was surprised by it, honestly. He enjoyed wanking, sure. But it was an every-few-days thing for him. Not quite so frequent as someone like Ron or Seamus, whom he’d heard wanking constantly in the Gryffindor Tower dormitories for the better part of six years. It seemed Luna had a similar, lowkey appetite for her own self-satisfaction. Yet with each other, the thrill of pleasing another, of becoming, for a moment, an entirely unique conjoined form, kept their desires at a staggering pitch.

The learning curve had been steep but quickly and enjoyably climbed. Luna showed him where to touch her and made it clear in no uncertain terms that he was to ensure she came at least once each session. He showed her the special places on his penis that made him shiver — the ones to ravish when it was time for him to explode and to avoid when she needed him to hang on a bit longer.

They rarely rushed to climax, simply relishing the feeling of one another’s bodies. And if he came too soon, he would eat her out slowly until he was ready again. Their shags were long, sweaty, loud and exquisite.

So suffice it to say, he hadn’t wanked in weeks.

Not that she wouldn’t have approved. She had made that much clear when she had wanked him off that very first time: wanking was an important part of one’s self-care. And if she was wanking still, in addition to their actions, he didn’t mind either. But every time he managed to get aroused at those few times they weren’t shagging (and she didn’t leave much energy for that), he reveled in saving it up for Luna.

They held hands on their way to the locker room showers, and kissed as they split off, Luna to the women’s and Neville to the men’s. He removed his towel and placed it in a wooden cubby. His soft penis wrinkled slightly in the cold air. He entered the warm room, where showerheads lined two walls with no barriers, chose a position on the left side near the end, where it was warmest, and placed his soap on the small shelf before turning on the hot water and closing his eyes as it splashed down his chest.

Neville got to work lathering up the bar of soap in his hands before bringing the suds to his head and massaging them into the thick hair of his scalp, made oily by sweat, dirt and the other detritus of the busy day. 

He took more suds and joined them with those dripping down his body to wash his chest and stomach, creased with muscle and unrecognizable from the boyish paunch that had defined his form for so many years.

He took more suds and lathered them further down, in another unrecognizable place. He massaged the soap into his billowing cloud of dark black pubic hair, which covered his pelvis in dark curls and surrounded the stem of his penis, making it look like a tall tree sprouting from above the thick forest canopy.

He liked his hair. It had taken so long for it to get there. Neville had been the latest of late bloomers. He had been hairless long after Ron’s ginger curls had become an omnipresent nuisance in the drains of their dormitory showers. And he’d taken longer than the others to require a “Scourgify” spell after orgasm.

Neville blinked out of the memory as he rinsed himself. He was so spent that even those thoughts couldn’t stir him at the moment. Suddenly, he heard footsteps entering the hall of showerheads.

“Bollocks!” he heard the distinctive voice of Ron Weasley curse.

Neville turned round to see Ron at the entrance. His mess of long-ish red hair was tousled and sweaty. HIs face was red with what seemed to be a mix of displeasure and arousal. Neville looked further down, unable to help himself. Ron’s penis was angrily erect. It rose up and out from Ron’s thicket of dark orange pubic hair and its thick veins coursed with blood from its base to his tight, all-covering foreskin. It was long, significantly longer than Neville’s at its best. The outline of his broad, shovel-shaped head strained against its wrapper, a milky white foreskin that hugged every feature of his penis and came to a knotted bud of bright pink that continued for nearly a half inch of tightly wrinkled flesh on its own. The glans was invisible, but Neville imagined it must be an angry shade of purple. 

Ron’s scrotum was taut to his body, the outlines of his large, egg-shaped testicles glistening through the thin, pinkish-red skin. Bollocks indeed.

Neville’s momentary glance ended, and his eyes returned to his friend’s face.

“Someone’s excited, eh?” Neville joshed Ron.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Ron answered. “Look, mate, I’m sorry, but I got to take care of this, all right? I’ll try and be quick about it.”

“Fine by me, mate, do what you need to do,” Neville heard himself say, ever accommodating, as he turned back to the showerhead. It wasn’t anything they hadn’t done in the same room before. “I’m just surprised you’ve got anything left, the way you and Hermione must be getting on. Luna’s got me right spent.”

Ron didn’t respond. At length, Neville turned back around. Ron was still facing him, but his head was down. Ron’s hand was wrapped in a fist near the tip of his enormous penis, but it was stationary.

“Y’alright, mate?” Neville asked. He walked towards Ron, missing the feeling of the water against his body but eager to find out why his friend was distraught.

“We don’t —” Ron started, unable to finish the sentence. He sighed exasperatedly. “We haven’t done anything like that yet.”

Neville was stunned, but he tried to hide it, for Ron’s sake. Ron’s libido was legendary — “Wank Tank Weasley” in their dormitory — and from what Luna had told Neville, Hermione’s needs were no small matter. Still, every couple had its pace. Perhaps Hermione just needed a bit of time, and Neville wanted to show Ron support. 

He closed the distance between them and placed his hand on Ron’s back, patting lightly.

“That’s all right, mate,” he said reassuringly. “Lots of girls like to wait a bit. No harm in that.”

“It’s not her,” Ron said quietly. Neville was doubly stunned. 

“We snog of course, and that’s nice,” Ron continued. “And she wants to take it further, I know she does. But I stop her. ‘Cause I’m so afraid to disappoint her.”

Neville hugged Ron from behind as his voice wavered. The exposed head of his soft penis rubbed against the hairy skin of Ron’s buttocks, but Neville stayed entirely flaccid.

“I love her so much, mate,” Ron continued. “I have for years. I’ve wanked off to shagging her for years. But I don’t have a clue how to … do her, you know? How to make her feel good. Where to touch and how to shag her and all that. Blokes are so easy, y’know? Girls bits are so confusing. And a thick git like me’ll just poke around and end up losing her.”

“Aw mate, it’s not like that,” Neville responded, unsure of how to continue but sad to see his friend so unsure of himself. “She loves you, and if she needs to show you how to touch her, she’ll do that. It can be kinda fun actually. Luna had to show me what to do. No one knows automatically.”

Ron tried to shake off his sadness. He was, impressively, still fully erect, though Neville wasn’t sure whether to give that credit to Ron, or to Hermione, who had clearly worked him into such a state.

“Besides,” Ron said, clearly trying to change the subject and cheer himself up, but doing so with a statement Neville knew to be false, “how much different can it be from having a good ol’ wank.”

Neville stepped out of the hug.

“Now that’s where you’re wrong, I’m afraid,” Neville said, as jocular as he could imagine while still disavowing Ron of that foolish notion. “I love a good wank, but it’s completely different. Getting sucked off, or being up in a girl’s cunny — it feels so amazing. Even when Luna just pulled me off for the first time, it was so different to anything I’d ever felt by myself.”

“Wow,” Ron said, dejectedly.

“You want me to show you?” Neville asked, surprising even himself with the question. “I’m sure it won’t be as good as Hermione, but it’d give you an idea of what you’re missing, and hopefully get you ready to take it to the next level with her.”

“Really, mate?” Ron asked, incredulous but excited. “You want to wank me off?”

“Consider it relationship advice,” Neville offered. “Given manually.”

Ron paused, but his utter horniness trumped his better senses.

“All right,” Ron said, feigning apathy but in fact twitching with excitement as he took his hand off his erection to give Neville access. “But be careful, all right? It’s different with the wrapper, and mine’s kind of tight. I don’t want anything ripping ‘cause you wank different.”

Neville nodded. 

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“It’s already back as far as it’ll go, so just make a fist over the tip, right up where my banjo string is, and go up from there so you rubs up against my helmet, then back down just to where you started, quick as you like once you get the hang of it.”

“What’s a banjo string?”

“Oh right,” Ron said. “It’s the bit that connects the wrapper to the tip. Right under the rim of the helmet, on the underside. Feels real, real good when you touch it.”

Neville reached down to Ron’s cock, about to the place Ron had indicated. Neville had an inkling that he was accurate, as while he favored a longer shaft stroke himself, that spot on the back under his head was particularly sensitive, even though there was no string to speak of.

“Here?” Neville said as he made a fist. Ron nodded as his eyes fluttered shut and he breathed out hard. “That spot feels good on me too, even without the skin.”

“Yeah, there’s good mate,” Ron managed as he clenched his eyes further shut, focusing on the pleasure. “Listen, could we be quiet, mate? Sorry, I don’t mean you’re being a problem. It just takes a little focus. Manual advice and all.”

“No problem, mate,” Neville responded. “I’ll shove it and you just enjoy, all right?”

Ron sighed in response as Neville, growing confident that his motions were working on Ron and that wouldn’t snap anything fragile, sped up his strokes near the tips of Ron’s covered head.

Neville had become hard as he started to touch Ron, and as he stood behind the Weasley wizard, the uncovered tip of his own cock brushed against the clenched cheek of Ron’s buttock. Ron groaned.

Ron soon reached his plateau, but instead of quickly crashing through and climbing towards orgasm, his body seemed stuck, unable to kickstart the final push. Perhaps, Ron thought, it was the public setting. But that was silly. He had spent six years in the Gryffindor dorms wanking off with everyone else each night with curtains drawn, and had wanked in the dormitory and Quidditch showers a fair number of times alone as well. 

Perhaps it was being wanked off by a bloke. But no, that was idiotic. While definitely heterosexual, Ron greatly enjoyed wanking with Harry, a practice they regularly took up each summer in his room at the Burrow. And while Harry was a bit more reserved, Ron relished seeing how another man wanked, and enjoyed creating games for them, over who could come fastest (Ron), who could shoot farthest (Harry), or shoot the most times in one orgasm (Ron, he had been pleased to find out). Who could stretch their foreskin the longest past the tip (Ron); who could pull it the farthest back (Harry, no contest). Who could make their penis the biggest (Ron, they well knew, by about two inches), who could get hard first without touching (Harry, thinking about Ron’s little sister, likely). Who could have the most orgasms in an hour (Ron, who shook out four), who could last the longest without stopping or coming (Harry); who could ejaculate from the least amount of stimulation (Ron, who could orgasm, with some mental effort, just by engaging the muscles that governed his penis and flexing them to push his tip against the tight foreskin). 

It wasn’t the bloke part that had stopped Ron, he realized. It was that he had become so used to his own hand that another’s couldn’t quite get him there. He spiraled into sexual anxiety. Would Hermione be able to make him come if she wanked him off? What about if she gave him a blowie? What if he couldn’t ejaculate inside her, had to take it out and wank himself off while she watched, unamused and unpleasured!?

Neville sensed something was amiss. He knew how quickly Ron came from six years of nightly wanks and from the masturbatory gossip that the boys of Gryffindor all shared proudly. And while Ron was still hard, Neville could feel a slight dip in its turgidity in his hand, a harbinger of approaching softness.

Neville thought about employing what Luna had done with him those months ago, which had become a regular and enjoyable part of their sexual encounters since: pleasuring a man anally. But that was a door for Hermione to unlock. And if Luna’s stories were true, Ginny had made sure Hermione was well aware how to unlock it.

“This is bloody useless,” Ron said, pulling away from Neville. “I’ll do it myself.”

Neville re-approached Ron and attempted to console him.

“Just think of Hermione, mate,” Neville said, speaking quietly, seductively and directly into Ron’s ear as he cocked his head to face him, mimicking the filthy, wonderful whispers Luna often hissed into his while he thrust back and forth into her. Ron shut his eyes again, and Neville looked down at the ginger wizard’s erection. “Your holding her tight, and you can feel her soft brown hair hanging all over your shoulders as she pulls you closer to kiss you. It’s so smooth, it smells so nice. And you can feel her tits pressing up against you, pushing in and out as she breathes hard she’s so hot for you. Her nipples are like knives, they’re so hard ‘cause she wants you so bad. You can feel her tongue in your mouth. You can feel her hands wrapped around your back, holding you tight. She loves you, mate.”

Ron exhaled sharply at that. Neville looked down and saw that the Weasley boy was fully erect once more, the dark pink bud of tight overhang straining against the milky white of his foreskin, reddened with tension at the taut band that encircled its rim. Neville opted to let Ron suffer: his penis would get Neville’s attention only at the last moment. That, Neville supposed, was the punishment for going soft on its master. As if in protest, a teardrop of pre-ejaculate burbled out the tip of Ron’s acroposthion and dripped down toward the edge of his foreskin.

“You can feel her thick brown bush against your hips,” Neville continued. In his mind, brown became blonde and Hermione became Luna. Neville had managed to get hard as well, but he knew he would be saving up for that blonde witch and her supremely skilled fingers and orifices. He recounted in vivid detail his memories of his first time going all the way with Luna, transposing it to the brown-haired witch for Ron. “Her legs are curled around one of yours, and she’s trying to hump her cunny against you, anything to feel what she needs to feel. You can feel how wet it is. Her clit is so hard, she’s so horny, you can feel it like a peppercorn as she rubs it against your leg. Eventually she can’t take it anymore. Snogging and humping isn’t enough. She needs more. She takes your hand down and guides it to her cunny. It doesn’t matter that you don’t know how to make her come; she’ll show you. You feel past her bush and into her wet pussy, and she puts your fingers on her hard little clit and shows you how she wants you to touch it, back and forth in the tiniest little circles you could imagine, and she starts shaking cause it feels so good. And eventually she’s so dripping wet that she grabs your cock and she guides it into her cunny and you’re fucking her and it feels so bloody good, mate.”

Neville, at this juncture, felt it was time to let Ron enjoy himself once more, but decided also to modify the technique he used both to engross Ron in the story and show him one small facet of why the touch of another person was an entirely new experience to wanking. 

Yes, Neville would continue to provide the short strokes at the tip of Ron’s penis with one hand, taking care not to stretch the boy’s tight frenulum towards its breaking point. But at the base of Ron’s erection, Neville formed a tight fist with his other hand and jerked up and down in a twisting motion, his fingers wiggling slightly to provide a vibration-like effect. Neville timed his lower shaft stroke with that stimulating Ron’s sensitive head such that his lower stroke would come up while his upper one came down, providing amble skin to work with and keeping the upper one pleasurable. As the hand rubbing the tip moved up, that stroking the shaft came down, stretching the skin on Ron’s shaft with an enjoyable effect.

Ron gasped as Neville began his new ministrations, Ron’s head falling back and his mouth falling open with a “Fuck, mate that feels good.”

“That’s nothing, mate,” Neville said. “You’re fucking Hermione real fast now. She’s moaning as you fuck her while you rub her clit. Your cock is so big, it fills her up and makes her feel so bloody good.”

Ron bucked against Neville, his back arching and his feet curling on the tiled floor.

“‘Don’t stop,’ she says,” Neville continued. “‘I’m so close,’ she moans as you fuck her. You reach up and grab her tit and you feel her cunny start to close around you and — ”

Ron grunted loudly and grabbed Neville’s top hand with his fist, pulling back down to stretch his foreskin to its limit and holding it there, reveling in the sensation as he began to orgasm. His penis convulsed as he shot semen, and it dribbled in globs out of his tight foreskin bud once it had found its way out. His breath slowed over time as his orgasm subsided, and he let loose his grip on Neville as he began to soften. 

Neville removed his hands and let Ron’s penis sag downwards, still thick but softened. Ron squeezed from the base of his shaft up through his foreskin, pinching its tip to extricate the last vestiges of ejaculate.

“That was great, mate,” Neville said, stepping back and washing the semen from his hands in the stream of Ron’s shower. “When you do it for real though, let her finish first if you can.”

“I’ll try,” Ron offered. He eyed Neville’s erection, smaller than his own and foreskinless but straining all the same. “You want me to…?” 

Ron gestured at Neville’s penis.

“No way, mate,” Neville responded, laughing. “I got to save this up for Luna. I’d never forgive myself if I used up a stiffy without her.”

Neville, who had finished the cleaning parts of his shower before Ron had arrived, walked over to retrieve his soap and washcloth, then turned towards the door of the shower room.

“In fact, if you don’t mind…” he started.

“Go forth and shag, Longbottom,” Ron said. “And thank you.”

“Of course,” Neville said. “It’s what mates are for, right?”

Neville exited the shower room and toweled himself off quickly in the comparative cold of the locker area. He wrapped the towel around himself, tying his erection up against his hip and concealing it a best he could with the knot of his towel.

Outside, Luna was waiting for him in her bathtowel, a smaller towel wrapped around her head and her shampoo, soap and washcloth in her hand. Neville approached and kissed her, then leaned in to whisper in her ear.

After a beat, she smiled and took his hand. They ran back to their tent.

“Silencio!” Neville cast as he zipped it shut, just as Luna let her towel fall to the floor, the sound of giggling going silent as she jumped him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to be a while on the next chapter, I'm afraid. I have the idea in my head, and I've written bits and pieces, but this one was nearly done when I went to finish it. Expect and enjoy some non-HP one-shot fics in the meantime.


End file.
